


The Potions Mouse

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Creature Fic, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 19:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20263510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: One spring day, Potions Professor Draco Malfoy saved a precocious mouse from certain death. Little did he know that this small act of kindness would solve a ten-year mystery and change his life forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My fairytale was a Finnish tale called “The Forest Bride: The Story of a Little Mouse Who Was a Princess” (link provided at the end of the fic). Thanks to my alpha, ArtemisiA, for the encouragement. Thanks to my beta, dormiensa, for her time, insightful comments, and letting my comma splices slide.

**Chapter 1**

The world ended in two speeds.

Slow. The jet of green light as it sizzled through the air. Its impact with Harry Potter’s chest, the beam fracturing like water striking an oiled surface. Harry’s fall, the collapse of ankles, knees, and hips that left his broken body at the center of Hogwarts’ crumbling courtyard.

Fast. The order to capture or kill everyone who had fought against Voldemort. The fight, wizards and witches slinging insidious spells across the narrowing field. The carnage. The sounds, smells, and sights of dead and dying flesh.

Hermione Granger, as she sprinted into Hogwarts, away from what should have been the final battle.

Running had always been the plan. She, Harry, and Ron had discussed it at length during their Horcrux hunt, on sunny days when the likelihood of Harry’s death seemed most remote. Harry had made them promise, and they had sketched out a contingency that contained enough room for hope.

Flee the battle and get somewhere safe. Regroup at Shell Cottage, providing Bill Weasley, the Secret Keeper, was alive. Assess the damage, heal the injured, and bury the dead. Tell everyone about the Horcruxes. Resume the search. Survive the fight.

She looked left, right, and went cold. Where was Ron?

They had stood side-by-side in the courtyard. Her hand still ached from her grip on his forearm, restraining and steadying. Harry had fallen, and she had jerked backwards, taking Ron with her. He’d resisted, a contrariness so expected she’d instinctively felt annoyed. She’d started running, and he’d been close behind. She’d heard his breathing. Or had that been her own?

Had he followed her at all?

Hermione stopped at an intersection and turned, catching her breath, trying to hear over her heartbeat and the distant screams. Footsteps pounded toward her. She took a step forward, heart lifting. If Ron were safe, she had a chance. They all did.

He had to be safe.

One set of footsteps became many, and three Death Eaters rounded the corner. Hermione’s blood ran cold. She had time for one breath: a single, gasping exhale that sounded like _go_.

Six jets of light rocketed down the long hall. Hermione’s three, cast in quick succession. Only her first Confundus hit. The leftmost Death Eater staggered, his curse gouging a molten crater into the stone floor. She lurched left, dodging the second curse, which went off like a bomb against the wall behind her. The third hit, punching the breath out of her.

Dizzy, nauseated, she pressed a hand to her side. No blood. Her chest ached as her lungs reinflated. She forced herself to run.

Ron’s absence changed nothing. She had to assume that he was with his family and safe.

The Death Eaters changed nothing. She had made a promise to survive.

_Get somewhere safe_.

The Room of Requirement.

It was on the seventh floor; she was ground level.

The nearest staircase, if it hadn’t shifted, was two halls down on the left.

Her speed relative to the Death Eaters’: not ideal.

Her injuries compared to theirs: equally unfavorable.

The calculation was clear: they would catch her. She needed another option.

_A House Common Room_.

Slytherin’s was on this side of the castle, but she couldn’t count on them for help. Hufflepuff’’s was second closest, but in the opposite direction. She could go the long way. Take the staircase up to the first floor, loop around the castle, and maybe lose her pursuers in the warren of classrooms and broom closets.

Down two halls, then left. Hermione stopped just before tumbling off the empty stone ledge. The staircase had shifted. She was trapped.

The Death Eaters’ footsteps grew louder as Hermione cast around for an idea. To her right, an old tapestry hid a secret niche, discovered during her Prefect patrols and often used by amorous couples meeting after curfew. It was better than nothing. Maybe she could surprise them and give herself a strategic edge, however slight.

She flung the heavy fabric aside, using her wand to still it. She pressed herself against the stone wall.

“Help me, help me, help me...” she muttered, barely a whisper.

The Death Eaters stopped at the empty ledge.

“What’d ya think, Cleve? She go over?”

One kicked a piece of debris over the ledge; it echoed as it struck bottom.

“Long drop,” said Cleve. “Don’t see a body.”

Nervous sweat slid down her back as she readjusted her grip on her wand. Was she going to kill these men? They were going to kill her, or worse. No one would blame her for it. It was war.

“She’s still ’ere, then…” said the first.

Hermione pressed herself into the corner. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kill them. Harry was dead, and Ron was gone. It was two against one, and she was trapped. It would be better to disappear, better to hide…

“Help me, help me, help me, _hide me_…”

Her whispered chant changed with her mind, and the specific request was one Hogwarts could oblige.

A rapid, shifting pain took hold, her body held captive during the distinctive agony of transformation. But this wasn’t the familiar burn of Polyjuice, a temporary rearrangement of familiar features. This was Polyjuice gone wrong, the fracturing, shrinking, resetting of bones into shapes that were far from human.

The walls around her soared skyward, the quarried stones taking on grotesque proportions. A cave-like entrance appeared in the corner, smelling of stale air and refuge. She darted into it.

Bright light filled the space outside the cave. Then, it exploded. The shockwave reverberated in her chest, and her ears rang as stone boulders slammed to the floor. She cringed, making herself small.

“Where is she?”

“Impossible.”

“Maybe she jumped.”

“Let’s go. The Dark Lord…”

“Yeah, I know what ’e said. _Molliare_. After you.”

The Death Eaters landed hard on the level below, the Cushioning Charm poorly cast. Only they began to run did Hermione venture from her sanctuary. She climbed over mountainous chunks of stone and mortar and picked her way past the tapestry, half-torn and badly singed. She crawled into the hallway, pausing when the earth shook: a gradual, bone-deep rumble of stone against stone as the missing staircase shifted back into place.

The Death Eaters were gone.

But then, so was she.

Hermione sat on her haunches and raised her furred arms. Paws tipped with sharp, hooked nails had replaced her hands. She swiped them over her head and felt large ears, an elongated nose, and whiskers. A new set of muscles tensed along her spine. Her long, hairless tail flicked behind her.

A sliver of logic broke through the numbness. Being turned into a mouse was better than being dead or captured. And it was her own fault. She had read _Hogwarts: A History_ often enough to have realized her mistake. She should have known better.

After all, Hogwarts always gave help to those who asked for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_11 Years Later_… 

Draco Malfoy’s feet struck a steady cadence against the uneven ground, just as measured and controlled as his breath. Jogging around Hogwarts was like running through his life, passing milestones that measured more than physical distance. He started on Hogwarts’ south side, where a forgotten corridor off the Slytherin Common Room opened to the Great Lake. The view had been a constant since age eleven. Regardless of the turns his life had taken, the glint of sunshine off the still water, the size and shade of the willow tree on its banks, and the indescribable smell of the shore were the same. Shifting with the seasons, but always in a way he recognized, even when he didn’t know himself. 

He turned west, towards the castle’s entrance. The Astronomy Tower cast a long shadow, but the commemorative plaque with his old Headmaster’s name on it shone like a beacon. He’d ignored it sixth year, and he passed it now without slowing, turning to the Forbidden Forest. The heart of darkness, where Voldemort and his core Death Eaters had waited and Draco had lingered too long. He ended his run at the courtyard, where the first battle had been lost and delay turned to decision for him and his family. 

Nothing had been the same after Potter’s death. He’d been the Chosen One and the one to make the choices. The Order was adrift without him, mired in confusion and lethargic with lost hope. Granger’s disappearance, and the sudden knowledge void it caused, compounded the loss. 

But even the leaderless collective was better than remaining with Voldemort’s army. Each member of Draco’s family had earned the Dark Lord’s displeasure in one way or another, and defecting to the Order was their best chance for survival. For Draco, it felt like the last chance. One final attempt to salvage what remained of his conscience and turn his life into something worthwhile. 

It took time. Weeks passed before necessity pulled Ron Weasley from his grief long enough to suggest a leadership council. Months before the council became more than a collection of frightened and angry individuals. For a season, they could do no more than react to the Death Eaters’ random acts of terrorism, but then, they caught a break. A win. An unwilling conscript who, in exchange for whatever protection the Order could provide, was willing to help. 

From there, the war became a matter of information management. To Draco’s great surprise, Weasley knew just how to play it: coded messages and targeted misinformation campaigns; recruitment and subterfuge; top-secret missions; strategic losses for eventual gains. 

A year after the lost Battle of Hogwarts, the Order destroyed the final Horcrux, Nagini. Six months after that, it ended for good. They fought deep within the Department of Mysteries, the Order standing firm between the Dark Lord and one of the few remaining Time-Turners. 

The memories still haunted him. Even a decade later, he would wake in a cold sweat, the Dark Mark on his arm—permanently inked upon Voldemort’s demise—burning like a summons, the remembered pain a sharp reminder of the past he’d escaped. 

It was a small price to pay for the future he now enjoyed. 

Draco braced himself against a toppled column to stretch. The spring sunrise was delicate, barely breaking through the clouds, and the castle stood like an island in an ocean of shifting, silver mist. Behind him, faint voices, the familiar back-and-forth of students quizzing each other over an early outdoor breakfast. Beyond them, a castle waking, candles flickering to life at windows and the smell of sausages wafting from the nearby kitchen vents. 

This was his home. Hogwarts was the life he had chosen, and he had earned his position within it. 

“I am the Potions Master, and I deserve this,” he whispered. His daily affirmation. Recently, he’d even started to believe it. 

After a shower and a light breakfast, Draco prepared for his first and favorite class: a double period with his N.E.W.T. students. Today’s brew was the Draught of Living Death, a complex potion that, historically, about half the class could complete. He rearranged the room so that they could partner, elongating the benches to accommodate four people with one cauldron per pair. 

His students trickled in, yawning and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Their hushed conversation died away when the last student entered. The heavy door swung shut on silent hinges, and Draco stood. He looked around the classroom, meeting his students’ eyes, letting the tension build. Then, he grinned. 

“Books away, quill and parchment out.” 

The class groaned and rolled their eyes, the reaction so universal it could have been genetic. He waited until all the books were stowed, then cleared his throat. 

“Question one: explain the mechanism of action of the completed Draught of Living Death brew. Question two…” 

He collected the quizzes and lectured for about ten minutes, then sat down to grade while the students completed their prep work: chopping, slicing, and juicing the ingredients, and feeding their cauldron fires. By the time he’d finished, most pairs had started the first brew steps. He scanned the room, looking for trouble. His gaze lingered on the middle table in the first row, where two girls traded glares through wisps of steam. 

The animosity between Gryffindor and Slytherin had abated since his time as a student, but Cait Vargas and Nadia Burke seemed determined to bring it back. Cait was what Draco considered the stereotypical Gryffindor: competitive, antagonistic, and proud. She was also the only one in Hogwarts able to rouse mild-mannered Nadia to anger, a trait she often exploited. 

The consensus among the professors was that the girls’ antagonism hid a romantic compatibility that neither were ready to acknowledge. While Draco had his doubts, anyone with eyes could see that their fraught relationship was rapidly destabilizing. It was a matter of time before something broke. 

And, as fate would have it, the girls shared a lab bench in addition to a future: both wanted to become Healers. 

Draco hadn’t heard this week’s gossip, but the loathing in Cait’s narrowed eyes told him enough. Nadia kept her head down, ignoring her benchmate. Whatever their argument had been, he suspected that Nadia had come out on top. He also recognized the false peace. He’d acted the same way when he was a student, right before antagonizing Potter, Weasley, and Granger. 

Nadia’s brew partner, a Hufflepuff of middling Potions skill named Greg Weber, carefully added and stirred the Essence of Wormwood. Nadia noted the addition, and Cait turned back to her cauldron. 

Draco released a breath. The conflict was far from resolved, but several students had questions, communicated to him by discreet looks and raised eyebrows. Unable to shake the feeling of dread, Draco nevertheless rose and started his rounds. 

He was in discussion with Cyril Semyonov, a pretentious Ravenclaw eager to get on Draco’s good side, when it happened: a scream from the first row. Without thinking, he threw a Stasis charm at the middle table, freezing both cauldrons mid-brew. 

“You bitch!” 

Greg held Nadia’s wand arm as she faced Cait, who stood with her arms crossed and her hip cocked. 

“I don’t know what she’s talking about, Professor,” Cait said. She looked at him, her brown eyes wide with feigned ignorance. “Nadia screamed, and I spilled all my Valerian root. I think it was intentional.” 

Nadia shook off Greg’s hand. 

“I don’t give a shite about your Valerian root. What did you do to my potion?” 

“Back up,” Draco barked. “All of you.” 

The three students obeyed without hesitation. After five years of teaching and more injuries than he liked to think about, Draco had drilled laboratory safety into his students. The rules were simple: wear the required protective equipment, no food or drink, and don’t be a hero. 

He held his wand at the ready, prepared to neutralize a brew on the brink of catastrophic failure. What he saw took a moment to register. 

Hovering just inches above the crystal-clear contents of Nadia’s cauldron was a mouse. It was a tiny thing, with chestnut-colored fur and a shriveled piece of Valerian root held between its teeth. Nadia gasped as he levitated the creature away from the potion’s simmering surface. Cait steadied herself on the table behind her. He gave her a slow look. 

“Something you’d like to share, Ms. Vargas?” 

“No, sir.” Cait’s golden complexion took on a greenish hue. 

“Ms. Burke?” 

Though not as pale as Cait, Nadia looked at the mouse with wide, worried eyes. 

“No, sir.” 

Draco kept the mouse in Stasis as he walked to his desk. 

“Class is dismissed for the day.” With a wave of his hand, he cleared all but Nadia and Cait’s cauldrons. “I expect a sample of completed Draught of Living Death, initialled and dated, on my desk by sundown on Monday.” 

The class suppressed their collective misery, experienced enough to know that it would just bring them another assignment. Draco watched them pack up, his face impassive though fury sizzled through him. An investigation would confirm his suspicions about what had happened. If his instincts were correct, then Cait was in serious trouble. 

The Gryffindor packed her bag slowly and approached his desk as the other students filed out. Nadia lingered just outside the classroom door to listen. 

“Sir, the mouse… What are you going to do with her?” 

“What one normally does with a rodent,” Draco answered, gaze locked with Cait’s. “Drown it.” 

Cait’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. 

“I’ll take her.” 

“No.” 

“But sir...” 

“You are _dismissed_, Ms. Vargas. A dismissal that may be permanent depending on what my incident investigation reveals.” 

“I want to be a Healer,” she said, perhaps realizing the magnitude of her mistake. “Hippocrates’ School won’t take me without a N.E.W.T. in Potions.” 

“That’s hardly my problem.” 

Cait gasped and took an unsteady step back, then turned and left the dungeon. Draco heard Nadia’s voice beyond the closed door, muted but unmistakable; an old enmity refreshed by new injury. 

Their argument faded, and Draco turned his attention to the mouse, who was still caught in Stasis. It was just under four inches long, its pink tail slightly shorter than its body. Large ears, shining eyes, curly whiskers. He turned his wrist, adjusting the creature so that it—_she_—was belly-up. Her paws were closed, curled up into themselves, but there was no mistaking the angry red of fresh burns. 

“Alright,” he muttered, “let’s take care of you.” 

A hidden door behind his desk opened to a long set of spiralling stairs. A second door at the top opened to his workroom. He passed the first of two prep benches, each bookended by massive, floor-mounted cauldrons for bulk brewing. All four cauldrons were empty, but the first bench was packed with 100 vials of Pepper-Up Potion. The brew’s distinctive smell of peppermint, cinnamon, and clove lingered, making his entire apartment smell like Christmas. 

He lifted his emergency Healing kit from the wall as he passed and set it on the workbench closest to the window. He sat in the high top lab chair and set the mouse down. As soon as he lifted the spell, she bolted. Or tried to. Her burnt paws slowed her sprint to a stumble, and her inability to keep a straight line made Draco suspect a concussion. He set down a guiding hand to keep her from the edge. She tried to correct, but skittered and fell onto her side, her tiny body colliding with his palm. She thrashed against his fingers, tail whipping, and he closed his hand around her, trying to keep her still. 

“Hey, it’s okay, calm down, I… Mother of Morgana!” 

Teeth sunk into the fleshy pad of his thumb. He let go, and she struck the table with a soft thud, scrabbling to her feet and sprinting toward the edge once more. 

“Oh, no you don’t!” 

He immobilized her with a jab of his wand and palmed her frozen body in his left hand as he inspected the bite on his right. 

“You’d better not be rabid.” 

A sharp flick of his wrist applied a bandage to the injury. He sat once more and lifted the mouse to eye level. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He spoke slowly, as if that would help. “I need to look at your paws, and I need you to stay still while I do it. No more biting.” 

He tightened his grip as he lifted the spell. But the mouse didn’t try to run. He relaxed just a fraction, expecting a feint, but she didn’t move. She remained supine in his palm, her pale belly trembling with every panicked breath. 

It was like she’d understood him. Maybe something about his voice soothed her. 

“There you go,” he said, doubling down on the theory. “Not as cruel as you thought. Now, let’s see the damage.” 

With a gentle finger, he uncurled her right paw. The mouse shuddered. Draco winced when he uncurled the left one, the mouse squeaking in pain. 

“Sorry. Your paws are burned, and I think you have a concussion.” 

He uncapped a jar of burn cream and dipped the tip of his little finger into it, coming away with a pea-sized amount. 

“This is equal parts antibiotic, anesthetic, and regenerative. We’ll do one application now, bandage you up, and check again later tonight.” 

The mouse closed her eyes as he pressed his finger to her injuries, applying a thin layer of salve. He sliced strips of gauze with his wand and wound them around her paws. 

“Better than nothing,” he muttered, inspecting his clumsy work. “As for your concussion, I’m not sure what I could give you that wouldn’t kill you outright. I need to look into it. Until then…” 

He transfigured a nearby beaker into a cage with glass bars, lined it with conjured straw, and gave her a dish for water. He set her into it and watched as she found her balance on her two back feet. She hobbled toward the water dish, took a drink, then curled up, wrapping her tail around herself. 

And though Draco knew he should leave her alone, he reached into her cage and stroked a finger down her back. She was so soft. She stiffened under his touch, unaccustomed to the feeling, he was sure. But as he stroked her back a second time, then a third, she relaxed. 

Warmth bloomed in his chest. She trusted him, though she had little enough reason to do so, and he couldn’t help the immediate swell of affection towards her. His students occasionally provided this rush, but it was rare. Even then, they relied on each other more than him. But this mouse needed him for protection, shelter, healing, and comfort. She was _his_ responsibility. 

He withdrew his hand and let her sleep. Other than a standoffish owl who liked to bite, Draco had never had a pet. If this mouse lived through the night, he might consider changing that. 

~*~*~

Draco headed to the library after his final class of the day. He gave Madame Pince a desultory wave and navigated through the stacks to the _Creatures_ section. The mouse looked ordinary, but Draco nevertheless collected texts on both magical and non-magical creatures. He gave Pince another wave, ignoring her glare as he carried an armful of books beyond her domain. 

After peeking into the workroom and reassuring himself that the mouse was still asleep, he sat in a plush chair next to the hearth. A fire lit at once (Hogwarts elves were more thoughtful than the ones at Malfoy Manor, unsurprisingly) and Draco opened the first book in the pile. After an hour, _Mammals of Britain and Europe_ had produced the likeliest candidate. He glanced into the workroom and smiled. The mouse sat on her haunches in her glass cage, bandaged paws held to her chest, head cocked and curious. 

“Glad to see you’re awake.” Draco crossed the living room with the book and set it before her on the workbench so that she could see the picture. “I think you’re a field mouse. _Apodemus sylvaticus_. What do you think?” 

The mouse blinked at him. 

“Too formal, I agree. How about Sylvie?” 

The mouse shook her head, then sneezed. 

“Well, none of us got to choose, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with it.” 

He could have sworn she rolled her eyes. 

“You’ve been asleep for almost ten hours. I bet you’re hungry.” 

He dipped his hand into the cage. She looked at his hand, then at his eyes. Her gaze was uncanny, too steady for what should have been a skittish creature, too probing for a rodent. He felt like she was trying to figure him out. His heart skipped a beat when she stepped onto his fingers; whatever measure she had been performing, he’d apparently passed. She settled in the center of his palm, taking the time to wrap her tail around her body, and looked up at him when he didn’t lift her right away. Like she was impatient. Like she was not expecting the delay. 

He lifted her to eye level. 

“Each of my classes has asked about you,” he said. “I’ve heard stories all day. How you’d switch out my students’ ingredients when I wasn’t looking, or flip their textbook pages, or point your tail at the brew step they should have been on. They call you the Potions Mouse. Some think you’re my _assistant_.” 

She swished her tail across his fingers, as if amused by the moniker. He narrowed his eyes in thought. 

“Maybe we should make it official.” 

She lifted herself onto her hind legs, sitting up straight. The small hairs on the back of Draco’s neck stood on end. 

The books he’d read confirmed that Sylvie wasn’t a magical creature. But her behavior, the way she responded to him, the stories he’d heard… She was a mouse, but Draco was starting to think she was _more_. 

The question of how much _more_ bothered him. 

Instead of going into the kitchen for supper as planned, he sat down at the workbench and tilted his palm. She gave him a puzzled look—he _swore_ she looked puzzled!—and crawled onto the workbench’s scarred surface. She sat on her haunches and faced him. 

“I’d like to take a look at your paws.” 

She held them up for him to unbandage. Draco’s stomach turned. He must have paled, because the mouse dropped her arms and shuffled a few, concerned steps towards him. 

This couldn’t be happening. 

“I’m fine,” he lied, gesturing for her to lift her paws again. She did. Draco bit his tongue as he unbandaged them and watched her flex, the motions slow and careful. The burns looked healed, her paw pads pink and shiny. 

“Still painful?” 

She nodded. 

“And your head? Does that still hurt, too?” 

Draco’s certainly did. Sylvie nodded again. 

“Willow bark,” he muttered, trying to focus. “Headache Reliever will kill you outright at the therapeutic dose, and it loses effect when diluted more than tenfold.” 

He left her on the benchtop. He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the door and wished he hadn’t: the hurt and confusion in her eyes were unmistakable. 

Forty-five minutes later, he returned with a full pot, a stack of small bowls, and a clearer head. The closest any animal had ever come to understanding human language was through sign language. Even then, the array of shared symbols between the animal and its trainer was limited to about 1,000. In addition, the only animals considered capable of any degree of high-level communication were primates, the closest genetic relatives to _Homo sapiens_. 

They weren’t mice. 

He sat at the workbench and poured a small measure of tea into the well of a saucer. He took the cup for himself. Sylvie’s nose wrinkled in distaste when she sniffed the bitter brew, but she drank regardless. 

“Are you hungry?” 

Sylvie nodded. 

Draco placed the bowls onto the workbench and twisted a raspberry out of the air. The mouse sat up straight, arms extended toward the treat, but her excitement vanished when he set the berry on the table and covered it with a bowl. He flipped the other bowls over, too, and watched the mouse puff with indignation as he shuffled them. His objectivity wavered: she was cute when angry, her fur all poofed out and her dark eyes narrowed. 

He withdrew his hands and sat back. 

“Find the berry.” 

She glared at him. For a few minutes, she didn’t move, engaging him in a fierce battle of wills. But he’d eaten recently, and she hadn’t. Hunger overcame her pique, and she marched to the middle cup. He flipped it, handed her the berry, and watched as she took efficient, lady-like bites. He conjured a blueberry this time. 

“Again.” 

Whether it was berries, seeds, or greens, regardless of how complicated the pattern became, Sylvie never failed to find the food. It wasn’t the most rigorous intelligence test, and she was obviously annoyed at having to play the game in the first place, but by the time she had eaten her fill, Draco was convinced. 

He held out his hand for her, and she climbed into his palm. A gesture that, unthinking, did not trouble him, but now sent his mind reeling with possibilities. He ran his thumb across her cheek. 

“You’re not an ordinary mouse, are you?” 

She caught his thumb between her front paws and held a bite of flesh between her teeth, applying enough pressure so that he felt it. It didn’t hurt, she didn’t break the skin, but the meaning was clear. 

“No more games to get fed.” 

She released his thumb. 

“I just had to be sure.” 

She flicked her tail against his wrist. A dismissive swat. Her way of saying, _Yeah, right_. 

He set her into the enclosure. 

“We’ll figure this out tomorrow,” he promised. 

She sat at the glass bars and watched him leave, dark eyes wide and shining. Draco ignored the wave of guilt he felt when he extinguished the candles and shut the door, leaving her in the dark. As far as he knew, Sylvie was a mouse. There was no need to feel guilty about having her sleep where a rodent ought to sleep. 

And yet, after hours of tossing and turning, Draco threw off the sheets, went into the workroom, and nudged the little mouse awake. He gathered her into his palm and brought her into his bedroom. She watched from his nightstand as he shrunk a pillow, and she crawled into it without hesitation. 

Only when she was curled up and comfortable did Draco’s restless mind settle.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Draco stared at the mouse over his morning cuppa, trying to formulate a plan. 

No reasonable explanations for Sylvie’s intelligence had come to him in the night. In fact, he had been prepared to dismiss yesterday’s events as a wild, vivid hallucination until she’d shown him her paws. She opened and closed them with ease, then scampered across his nightstand, making precise, tight loops around the items on its surface: a stack of Potions books, a glass of water, her makeshift pillow-bed. 

He sighed and turned to stare at the ceiling. From his peripheral vision, he saw her perch on the edge of the nightstand. Waiting. Worried. He hadn’t imagined her, then. Sylvie was real and, for whatever reason, she was still here. He’d thrown off the sheets, offered his hand, and brought her to the kitchen. 

He set his cup down and leaned back against the chair, goosebumps prickling over chest as his bare skin contacted the metal. Sylvie averted her gaze, focusing on the pumpkin seed held between her paws. 

“I want to diagnose what went wrong in yesterday’s N.E.W.T. class. I’m hoping you can help.” 

She looked askance at him and nodded. 

“I need to understand how much you know,” he warned, his tone drawing her eyes once more. “Can I quiz you?” 

She rolled her shoulders, the mouse equivalent of a noncommittal shrug. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He summoned her water dish from the workroom and refilled it. “Stay out of trouble.” 

He showered, dressed, and felt mostly human when he joined her again. Sylvie, too, had washed. Small droplets ringed the water dish, and he caught her tugging a paper napkin from the holder at the table’s center. 

“No need.” He grabbed the napkin and swiped it over the mess. “But thanks anyway.” He held a hand out for her, and she jumped into his palm, excited to start the day. 

The Floo roared when they were just feet from the door. He sighed and set Sylvie onto the side table. Only one person would be calling him this early on a Saturday. He collapsed onto the sofa, eager to have this done. 

“Hello, Mother.” 

“Draco, so kind of you to accept my call.” 

After a lifetime under her influence, Draco thought he would have developed an immunity to Narcissa’s characteristic brand of sardonic guilt by now. 

“I’ve been busy.” 

“Too busy to join me for tea today?” 

“Yes.” 

“A shame. We have important matters to discuss.” 

“I’m sure they can wait.” 

“And it will dreadfully inconvenience the younger Ms. Greengrass.” 

Draco stifled a groan. Narcissa Malfoy was never one to keep an ulterior motive hidden for too long. 

“She’s very eager to reconnect,” Narcissa continued, “and I’m sure you’ll find her much more engaging than you did in school.” 

“I hardly talked to her in school. Astoria was two years below me.” 

“All the more reason for a reunion.” 

“You said the same thing about Daphne Greengrass, and her French cousin, and her French cousin’s elder sister.” 

“You’ve been single for far too long.” 

“I told you, I’m not interested.” 

“It’s time you settled down.” 

“I’m 28.” 

“There are plenty of pure-blood women who would be happy to have you as a husband, I’m sure.” 

“And none that I’d be happy to have as a wife,” he shot back, with a longing glance at the door. 

Narcissa noticed. 

“You’re not alone.” 

“Not as such,” he answered, tense. 

“A woman?” 

Draco’s gaze shifted to where Sylvie waited, cleaning her whiskers. She saw him looking and stood on her hind legs, head tilted as if she wanted to know the answer, too. _In for a Knut_… 

“Yes.” 

Narcissa leaned forward. 

“Do I know her?” 

“No.” 

“What’s her name?” 

“Sylvie.” 

“Does she work at the school?” 

“No.” 

“When can I meet her?” 

“At the wedding.” 

Narcissa gasped; Draco stood. At least he’d landed a couple shots. 

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “Give Father my best.” He cut the connection before she could do much more than threaten his inheritance, then closed it entirely so that she couldn’t call back. 

“I’m in it now,” he said, picking up Sylvie. “Congratulations: we’re dating.” 

The mouse chittered. Draco couldn’t tell if she was amused or insulted. 

Cait and Nadia’s cauldrons, in Stasis since yesterday morning, continued to produce thin tendrils of steam. He walked right past them to the far wall, where the common ingredients were organized by scientific name. He set Sylvie down on the middle shelf. 

“I’ve never had an assistant. Too particular. Even my best students could never measure up. Do you think you can do better?” he asked with a smirk. 

She chittered again, definitely insulted this time. 

“Then consider this your interview.” 

Over the next two hours, Sylvie answered every question he asked. By sight and smell, she was able to identify ingredients by their common names. She scampered across the shelf as Draco asked her to find the primary active ingredients of Pepper-Up Potion, Skele-Gro, and Garroting Gas. In a creative pantomime, she described obscure Potions errors, like adding too much aconite to a Wolfsbane brew (a shake of the head: ineffective), stirring the opposite direction while making Amortentia (a leap into the air, all four limbs splayed, her tail held out straight: explosion), or the effect of pressing bloodroot instead of slicing it (pointing to the ceiling and crossing her arms over her chest: more potent, and potentially lethal, dose). Her responses came so swiftly that he wondered if his questions were too easy. But when he made them more complex, she answered those, too. 

The implications were serious, but there was still one more test to pass. He carried her to the simmering cauldrons. 

“You know what happened.” It wasn’t a question, but she nodded regardless. “Let me know if I get it right.” 

She scampered onto the top rail of Nadia’s chair to watch. 

It didn’t take long. A pale powder dusted the open bench space between Cait and Nadia’s cauldrons. He rubbed some between his forefinger and thumb, the particles feeling as smooth as oil against his skin. Next, he ladelled the unfinished brews to check consistency. Cait’s looked correct, but Nadia’s was far thinner than it ought to have been. Finally, he examined and weighed the Valerian root Sylvie had snatched from midair. 

“Cait added powdered Bicorn horn to Nadia’s cauldron,” he said. “Bicorn horn reacts violently to anything with a cell wall, and Nadia was about to add Valerian root. Her cauldron would have exploded. She might have lost her hand had you not intervened.” 

Sylvie nodded. Draco released a slow breath and sat in Cait’s seat. He gave himself a minute to think, to arrange the evidence and follow it to its logical, if improbable, solution. 

“You passed every test,” he said, glancing at Sylvie. “You can identify all of the common ingredients and know more brew interactions than some of my N.E.W.T. students. Hell, you can even understand me. You’re no ordinary mouse, so what are you? An Animagus?” 

Sylvie shook her head. 

“A student? A Transfigurations experiment gone wrong?” 

Another shake. 

“Cursed?” 

The mouse bobbed her head. Not a definite answer, but close enough. 

The next question caught in his throat; he almost didn’t want to know. 

“Are you… human?” 

Sylvie nodded. 

Draco’s mind blanked with dawning horror. He’d kept a human in a cage. He’d withheld her food to satisfy his own curiosity. He’d given her a name. She probably already had one. 

He shot to his feet. 

“I know what we need to do.” 

~*~*~

Draco sat impatiently in the Ministry’s Atrium, awaiting his escort. He’d felt on edge for a full day now, the notion of Sylvie’s humanity coloring their every interaction. It felt wrong to hold her in his hand or have her next to his bed, but it seemed downright irresponsible to give her space. His conception of Hogwarts had changed from a quirky but harmless castle to a labyrinth of certain death. Shifting staircases could crush a human, nevermind one in mouse form. Cats wandered the halls, and the owls… All the owls… 

She poked her head from his robe pocket and glared. He stilled his bouncing leg. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, casting a look around him. No one seemed to notice him talking to a mouse. “I’m just… What if this doesn’t work? What if—” 

“It’s nice to see you made a friend, Draco.” 

He jumped, startled by Luna Lovegood’s dreamy voice. He felt Sylvie fall and roll in his pocket. Heard her faint, exasperated chittering. 

“Luna, hi.” 

“It’s nice to see you again. You never did answer my letters.” 

It wasn’t an accusation; he didn’t think she was capable of that. But it was a fact, and Draco felt himself color with shame. Luna had been the first to trust him after his family’s defection to the Order. She’d gone out of her way to make them feel included, bringing her father to sit at their otherwise empty table and talking to them as though they’d always been on the same side. Like they hadn’t imprisoned her in Malfoy Manor’s dungeons for months. 

He cleared his throat. 

“Sorry about that. I got… busy.” 

She smiled and nodded. He broke the silence before it could extend too long. 

“I appreciate you coming in on a Sunday.” 

“I was already here. Rolf is on assignment, and I don’t like being alone. My name is Luna.” 

It was a moment before Draco realized she was addressing his pocket. He lifted his arm and saw Sylvie peeking her head from the fabric. 

“Is there somewhere we can go?” 

“Sure. I’m on Level 4.” 

They were silent in the lift, Draco trying to hold himself steady while Luna swayed with the erratic motion. Halfway down the first hall was her office, small, cluttered, and shared with her husband. He didn’t know how they both fit. Draco wedged himself into a chair and waited for Luna to sidle around her desk to her chair. Once she was seated, he dipped his hand into his pocket. 

“This is Sylvie.” 

He let her onto the desk. Luna conjured a blackberry and held it in her palm. 

“Hello, Sylvie.” 

The mouse crossed the desk, ignored the berry, and grasped Luna’s fingers with her paws. 

“Oh.” 

Draco leaned forward. 

“What is it?” 

“She’s not…” Luna looked up at him, her silvery-blue eyes focused. “How did you find her?” 

He summarized the events of Friday and what he’d been able to learn of Sylvie’s life as the Potions Mouse. He explained the tests Sylvie had been able to pass, her ability to communicate. The chance that she might be human. 

Luna’s eyes widened at the last. She looked down at Sylvie. 

“With your permission, I’d like to perform a few tests.” 

The mouse climbed into Luna’s palm, and Draco felt a small twinge of jealousy; she’d bitten him the first time he’d held her. 

“There’s a conference room nearby that we can use,” Luna said. “You’re welcome to stay here.” 

“I’d rather come with, if it’s all the same.” 

“There’s a chair outside the conference room.” Luna shrugged and sidestepped her way out of the office. Draco followed her down the hall. 

“Are you sure you don’t—” 

She shut the door on his question and left him to wait. He took an uneasy seat in the rickety chair and tried not to think about what he was missing. 

Thirty minutes later, another employee entered the room: a tall woman with close-cropped auburn hair. He didn’t recognize her, and she didn’t introduce herself. Just walked into the conference room and shut the door. 

An hour passed. Draco had abandoned the chair in favor of pacing, much to the displeasure of the nearby cubicle occupants. He stopped when the door opened. Luna smiled at him from the threshold. 

“We’re ready for you.” 

A charmed twilight shone through the magicked windows, bathing the drab room in a hazy, otherworldly light. Luna sat beside the auburn-haired woman on the far side of the table. Draco sat across them, and Sylvie came to sit by his hand. She seemed despondent, her gait slower than normal and her head hung low, her curly whiskers trailing along the table’s surface. Tired, he guessed. Merlin only knew what tests she’d had to pass. 

“This is my colleague, Camilla de Bie,” Luna said. “She’s a Curse-Breaker.” 

“Nice to meet you.” Draco offered his hand. She took it with a single, curt shake. 

“Sylvie is special,” Luna confirmed. “She has shown intelligence and emotional capacity on par with our species.” 

Draco’s heart lurched. 

“So she _is_ human.” 

“No, she is a mouse.” Camilla’s brusque answer left no room for doubt. “I have performed all the standard curse diagnostics, and all show negative.” 

“She said she was cursed. Didn’t you ask her? She said—” 

“She said it was _like_ a curse. We think the head bob meant uncertainty. Accuracy, but not precision.” 

“But you talked to her, right? You communicated?” 

“Quite well,” Luna agreed. “She’s clever. Very emotive, considering her restrictions.” 

“_Restrictions_? Since when is a curse considered a restriction?” 

“She is not _cursed_,” Camilla said, more insistent. “Or if she was, it was not by the usual means.” 

“What about unusual means, then? Have you tested for those?” 

Camilla leaned forward, rattling a few words in quick, lilting Dutch. Draco suspected profanity. 

“We would like to have her back.” Luna placed a restraining hand on Camilla’s arm. “After we’ve had time to do some additional research.” 

Draco looked at his hands, eyes drifting to the morose mouse beside them. _Mouse_. He didn’t believe it. Spending just two days with Sylvie was enough to convince him she was different. And she said she was human, with no hesitation or uncertainty. Why would she lie? 

He held a finger out to her, and she pressed her cheek into it, closing her eyes. Tired, depressed, hopeless. Here were people who could help her, and they didn’t believe her. Maybe they needed more time. 

Draco’s heart grew heavy, but he forced himself to make the suggestion. 

“Maybe you should keep her.” 

Sylvie looked up at him with an expression that felt like a punch to the gut. He looked away. 

“You’ll understand if you spend time with her. You could figure out why she’s a mouse, maybe even find a way to make her human again. Maybe… Maybe she’s better off with you.” 

Luna and Camilla exchanged a look. Camilla shook her head. Luna grimaced and met Draco’s eyes. 

“Do you feel that you’re unable to take care of her?” 

“No,” he answered at once. “Not at all.” 

“Then you don’t want to?” 

“_No_. I mean, of course I do, I just—” 

“Sylvie, what would you prefer?” 

The room was silent as Sylvie looked between Draco and Luna. Eventually, her dark eyes turned to Draco. She reached a paw out to him. He understood her implicit question. 

“Of course.” 

She crawled into his hand, then surprised him by climbing up his arm and settling on his shoulder. It felt natural, like that was where she belonged. Luna nodded. 

“Regardless of what she is or how she became that way, Sylvie needs to be given agency.” 

It wasn’t a rebuke, but rather a firm reminder. 

“Of course.” 

“I’ll write when we have some new theories to test. Until then, keep her safe.” 

“I will.” 

When they arrived back at Hogwarts, the sun had set. Draco poured himself a glass of red wine, toed off his shoes, and sat in the chair beside the hearth. Sylvie crawled down his arm, putting her paws on the rim of glass and sniffing the contents within. 

“You’ll get sick.” 

She flicked her tail, but let go, jumping from his hand to his knee. 

“I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you.” Sylvie’s ears canted forward. “I didn’t understand who you were. I wouldn’t have put you in a cage, or cast spells on you, or…” _Pet her_. He couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud. “That’s not who I am.” 

Sylvie nodded, and Draco rubbed his eyes. It was nice to be understood. Trusted. 

“You’ve had the run of Hogwarts for Merlin knows how long. You’re free to go, if you’d like.” 

No response. 

“Or you’re welcome to stay here with me.” 

She cocked her head. Thinking? Waiting? 

“I… I’d like you to stay.” 

She curled up on his knee, wrapping her tail around herself, the question settled. Heat prickled in Draco’s eyes. He hadn’t realized how important her answer would be. 

“Would you like to sleep in the workroom?” 

A swat of her tail. 

“Living room?” 

An eye roll. 

“My room?” 

She settled her head on her paws. 

“Is the little pillow okay?” 

A lazy blink. 

“I could make a bed for you. Maybe a blanket, at least?” 

Her ears perked up at _blanket_. 

“A blanket, great. And about tomorrow… I know I said I’d take you on as my assistant.” 

She lifted her head, alert despite her exhaustion. 

“I meant it. Do you want to come to class with me?” 

A firm nod. Draco felt his remaining tension melt away. He leaned back in the chair and took a sip of wine. 

“They’re going to think I’ve cracked,” he said with a quiet laugh. 

Sylvie chittered, and Draco could imagine her response: 

_Who’s to say they’d be wrong_?


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The following week, Draco started each class with Sylvie on his shoulder. His younger students were so relieved to see the Potions Mouse unharmed that the news she would be assisting with lessons was accepted with no more than a shrug. The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth year students all found it different levels of hilarious that their staid professor had, for all intents and purposes, adopted his longtime, unofficial mascot. 

But no class took Sylvie’s presence quite like his N.E.W.T. students, who gave her a round of applause. She accepted it with unusual humility, covering her face with her paws until they quieted. Cait practically collapsed with relief, missing Nadia’s accusatory look. Draco caught it, however, and wondered how much Nadia already suspected. 

The lesson itself went well. Draco observed from his desk while Sylvie scampered from table to table, students whispering their congratulations and gratitude. She had returned to his desk by the lesson’s end, sitting at his wrist as the students turned in their vialed samples. 

“I’d like to see you after class, Ms. Vargas.” The young girl blanched. “You too, Ms. Burke,” who was next in line. 

The girls took their time packing up, and when the rest of the class had left, Draco gestured them to sit. Sylvie sprinted up his arm and settled on his shoulder before he stood. He walked around his desk and looked down at the two teens. 

“Is there anything you’d like to tell us about what happened last week, Ms. Vargas?” 

Cait lifted her chin and shook back her dark brown hair, proud and defiant to the end. 

“No.” 

“Very well.” Draco turned to Nadia. “Our investigation revealed that Ms. Vargas slipped powdered Bicorn horn into your brew before the required addition of Valerian root. If you had added the root, your cauldron would have exploded. I doubt even Madame Pomfrey would have been able to Heal you.” 

Nadia turned wide blue eyes to Cait, who looked forward, gaze unfocused, jaw clenched, though he saw the subtle quiver of her chin. At least she felt the severity of what she’d done. 

“This type of sabotage goes beyond House politics, personal vendettas, or academic rivalries. It shows a callous disregard for the well-being of your peers, which cannot be tolerated. Ms. Vargas, I am revoking your N.E.W.T. privileges. You are no longer welcome in my class.” 

He let the pronouncement hang. To his surprise, Nadia broke the silence. 

“What about Hippocrates’ School?” She looked at Cait. “You want to be a Healer.” 

“_Wanted_,” Cait corrected, her voice choked with grief. “May I be excused, Professor?” 

“Yes.” 

She left with as much dignity as her lost dreams would allow. Nadia watched her leave, calculating. 

“I don’t think she meant to hurt me.” 

“If her actions didn’t come from intention, then they came from ignorance. That’s just as bad.” 

Sylvie lashed her tail against his neck. Rebuke for the theatrics, he supposed. Nadia considered that for a moment, then stood. 

“Is there anything else, Professor?” 

“No, that will be all. Enjoy your weekend.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

It was an odd reply, not quite fitting the situation. Nevertheless, he waited until she’d shut the door to let his shoulders sag. He felt the silence like a weight. 

“Did I just ruin her life?” 

Sylvie pressed herself against his neck. A comforting gesture that sent a warm rush through his chest. 

“Thanks.” 

But the worry did not disappear. Something had shifted, and the following Friday’s class was subdued. Cait’s dismissal had altered the relationship between him and his seventh year students, their questions more formal, their answers more succinct. Discussion had disappeared. Even Cryil, who could be relied on for some arcane question on theory, was restrained. 

He didn’t like it. 

“How do I fix it?” he asked Sylvie over dinner. She stopped munching on her dandelion green to look at him. “Do they just need time, or is it going to be like this for the rest of the term? I’ve never dismissed a student before, and Cait was one of the strongest brewers I’ve had. A natural, like you.” 

Sylvie chittered and went back to her salad. But after supper, she disappeared. 

It was fine. She was independent and self-sufficient. He had no reason to worry. He didn’t _own_ her, after all. He had no right. And the reason he was almost apoplectic when she returned far too late was not due to any misplaced ideas about responsibility or entitlement but because he had promised to keep her safe, and he couldn’t very well prevent her from getting eaten by a cat or snatched up by an owl if she were roaming the castle. 

Arguing with a creature who couldn’t speak wasn’t easy, but Draco did his best. The distance between him and Sylvie lasted a full week. She refused his hand, kept her back to him at night, and disappeared for hours just to spite him, he was sure. 

The sour mood of his N.E.W.T. students and his companion seemed to break the first Friday of May. Draco attributed it to end of term excitement. The weather grew fairer each day, and the outlook for the weekend’s Quidditch match, a highly anticipated bout between Hufflepuff and Slytherin, was ideal: clear and dry. 

Then Nadia placed three potion samples on his desk at lesson’s end. The first, her own from that day’s brew: the bright, active gold of Felix Felices. The other two were brews from the past two weeks: the distinctive matte white of Skele-Gro and the sparkling sample of SpermatoNOa, a male contraceptive released from patent two years ago. 

Nadia stared him down, her jaw set. Sylvie’s tail swished against his shoulder. 

“I’ve already given you passing marks for these brews.” 

“They’re Cait’s.” 

Draco’s fingers tightened around his quill. Sylvie’s tail stilled. 

“Explain.” 

“She found me in the Library the day after you booted her from class. She apologized, and we started talking.” Nadia affected a shrug; there was more to the story, but it wasn’t for him to hear. “I don’t think one bad decision should stop someone from pursuing their goals, so I offered to tutor her. I shared my notes from the previous two weeks and helped her brew them. More like observed, actually. She didn’t need my help.” 

“How did she source the ingredients?” 

“She bought them herself.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. 

“All of them? One just doesn’t happen upon unicorn hoof clippings in a Diagon apothecary.” 

Nadia shifted her weight, an unconscious tell. 

“We may have had a little help with some of them…” 

Draco sent Sylvie a sideways look. Far from looking cowed, the mouse met his gaze with a stubborn intensity that, for whatever reason, reminded him of his Gryffindor students. He looked back at Nadia. 

“Why should I accept these?” 

He realized too late that the rest of the class had stopped packing up. All eyes were trained on him and Nadia. 

“We were in our second year when you started teaching,” she said, as if she’d expected the challenge. “Do you remember what you said to us at the start of term?” 

Draco set his quill down so that he wouldn’t snap it. 

“You said that everyone deserves a second chance, and that you hoped we could see past what you’d done to give you yours. Did you mean that, Professor?” 

He had, and she knew it. Draco was grudgingly proud of how she had cornered him; she was a good fit for Slytherin. 

He set Cait’s samples aside. 

“Tell Ms. Vargas to see me after her classes let out on Monday. I’ll have her work reviewed by then and will have made my decision. My _final_ decision,” he was sure to emphasize. But that did nothing to diminish Nadia’s grin. 

“Enjoy your weekend, Professor.” 

“Play well tomorrow and maybe I will.” 

Nadia’s grin turned competitive. She had been a Chaser for the past four years and Team Captain for the past two. 

“The Cup is as good as ours.” 

“I’m counting on it. Longbottom and I made a bet that I’d very much like to win.” 

Nadia left with a laugh, and when the door closed, Draco picked up Cait’s samples. They looked flawless. Consistency, color, clarity… She _had_ been one of his best students. 

Sylvie hopped down onto his desk, rearing on her hind legs to sniff at the vials. 

“You overstepped,” he said. 

The mouse stopped her inspection to look at him, ears falling. 

“I’m glad you did.” 

She perked up at once and leapt into his open palm. He scratched her head with his finger, her eyes closing in pleasure. 

He loved her. 

Admitting it was easy. The feeling was pure, like the best moments of his life had been distilled and concentrated to potent strength. Sylvie wasn’t swayed by the opinions of others or the distant darkness of his past. She knew him for who he was, the person he had chosen to be. And he knew her, too. Better than he knew anyone else. He could read her feelings through the height of her ears and the pace of her chittering, the swats of her tail and the exaggeration of her eyerolls, the pressure of her teeth and nails against his skin. 

Draco had grown up in a world of conditional affection, where his value hinged on what he achieved, but Sylvie’s love for him felt different. Limitless. 

And as much joy as her presence gave him, it hurt, too. 

Luna had written, and Draco and Sylvie had taken another trip into London, spending a full day at the Ministry. Once again, Draco was barred from observing the tests they put her through, but Sylvie was returned to him so exhausted she could hardly stand. Rolf agreed with Luna’s assessment: Sylvie was just a mouse. 

_Just a mouse_. 

Draco considered himself a rational man. Three experts had examined Sylvie and found her to be intelligent, empathetic, and charming. But they hadn’t found her to be human. It didn’t _feel_ like the truth, but what were feelings when measured against objective data? 

Admitting he’d been wrong wasn’t the painful part. Instead, it was admitting why he wanted so desperately to be right. 

Versions of the fairy tale existed in cultures across the world: a woman suffering under a terrible curse, a lonely soul finding love, an against-all-odds cure, a happy ever after. The romantic ease of two matched souls finding each other across circumstances and time appealed _precisely_ because it was the opposite of reality. 

Love took work. It was a messy process of trial and error, full of grief and heartache and self-loathing and effort. It didn’t just leap into a student’s cauldron to be saved on a whim. It had to be found. 

It was for this reason that Draco agreed to meet Narcissa at the end of May. He _wanted_ to be found. He was ready for it. Sylvie had shown him that, if nothing else. 

“Are you sure you want to come?” 

The mouse watched as he buttoned his collared shirt, his hair still wet from the shower. She rolled her eyes and nodded; it was not the first time he’d asked. 

“You’ll have to stay out of sight.” He ran a hand through his hair, drying and styling it with a single pass. “Mother’s not a fan of small, furry creatures.” 

She chittered, indignant, but crawled into his hand regardless. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to travel via trouser.” 

She leapt into his pocket, her tiny body warm against his thigh. 

“I can’t believe you’re _choosing_ to meet my mother.” 

Her squeak was muffled, but Draco got the gist of it: neither could she. 

His cheer faltered when he saw Narcissa waiting at the main gate, dressed in an expensive silk robe. Her platinum hair was pulled back, and she looked far too superior to be visiting a school. 

“You’re late,” she said in greeting, kissing him on either cheek and taking his offered arm. 

“You’re early.” 

“I’ve been waiting five years for this invitation.” 

“I’ve been busy.” 

“I’m sure that’s true. When will I meet her?” 

Sylvie shifted in his pocket. 

“I’m doing fine, thank you for asking,” Draco groused. “Yes, we did win the Quidditch Cup. I know you were concerned.” 

Narcissa tightened her grip on Draco’s forearm. 

“There’s no need for sarcasm. We both know why I wanted to visit.” 

“The conversation can’t wait until after lunch?” 

“Why should it?” 

Because accepting his mother’s help in figuring out his love life could backfire. Because he hadn’t told Sylvie why he’d invited Narcissa to lunch and, if he were honest, didn’t want to. Because delaying the inevitable felt like something he could control. 

“I’m not interested in marrying for influence or political connections,” he said, deflecting. “It may have worked for you and Father, but—” 

“But your generation is different,” Narcissa finished for him. “I know. You have more freedom to choose than Lucius or I ever did. That doesn’t mean you have to do it on your own.” 

The Hogwarts’ elves had spread a blanket for them beneath the willow tree at the Great Lake’s edge. He conjured a cushion for Narcissa and, after he’d taken his own seat, adjusted his trousers. Sylvie sprinted from his pocket, a blur of chestnut brown disappearing into the bright green grass behind him. Trays of fruit, salad, sandwiches, and goblets of cold lemonade appeared before them. 

“Besides, your Father and I should have some say into who you choose.” 

“_Mother_.” 

“It’s a matter of practicality.” She took a delicate bite of cucumber sandwich. “Your wife will be representing the Malfoy family name. She needs to be respected, well-bred, polite—” 

“Pure-blood?” 

Narcissa’s shoulders rolled in a half-shrug. 

“Society has changed, and we have changed with it. If you find a suitable half-blood woman, Lucius and I would be supportive.” 

Draco frowned, the implication obvious. The grass next to him shifted. 

“That brings me to your Sylvie. Is she a student?” 

Draco choked on his lemonade; Narcissa raised an eyebrow. 

“_No_.” 

“It could work, if she were,” Narcissa continued. “The Wizengamot has changed, but men will always have a price.” 

“I am not having an affair with a student.” 

As though to prove him wrong, Nadia shouted in greeting behind him. 

“Hi, Professor!” 

Narcissa gave Draco an arch smile, which fell as she saw Nadia walking hand-in-hand with Cait. Draco smirked, then wiped his hands, glad for the distraction. 

“Excuse me for a moment.” 

Draco walked over to them, Nadia confident where Cait was reserved. 

“You seem to have found common ground.” Draco nodded at their interlaced fingers. 

“The Library has a way of clarifying things,” Cait said. “Understanding just seems to be, I don’t know…” She looked at Nadia, considering. “_Easier_ there, I guess. We got to know one another better.” 

“Though I don’t like to get involved in my students’ personal lives, I’m happy for you both,” he said. “Hippocrates’ School is demanding, but you’re going into it together. I know you’ll do well.” 

“Oh, that reminds me! Professor, we were wondering…” Cait jabbed her elbow into Nadia’s ribs, but Nadia ignored her, squirming to the side to avoid a second blow. “We were wondering if you’d write letters of recommendation for us. To include with our applications.” 

Before Draco could answer, Narcissa screamed. He whipped around just in time to see her wand flick out over the lake, a stone-sized missile zipping out over the deep water. Panic rose like a tide in his chest. The projectile hit the water with a small splash, barely visible among the gentle waves. He began to run. 

“What was that?” he yelled. 

Narcissa looked back, shocked to see him in a full sprint. She stood. 

“Nothing,” she answered. “Just a mouse. Better it drown than—” 

The lake roiled, then exploded. The body of a naked woman shot ten feet into the air. She hung at the apex, just long enough for dread to curl its fist around Draco’s heart and squeeze, then began to fall. He threw a spell at her: a Stasis charm, cast on instinct. While powerful enough to save a mouse, it could only slow the woman’s descent. She hit the water with a slap and began to sink. 

“_Accio_!” 

The spell dragged her body through the water. Draco caught her in the surf—he hardly felt her weight—and slogged to shore. 

“The blanket!” 

Narcissa stood frozen, mouth covered in horror, but Cait moved, clearing the food with a sweep of her wand. Draco laid the woman down and pushed the wet hair from her face. 

Her face. 

His heart stopped. He knew this woman. A classmate who had disappeared over a decade ago. A witch, presumed dead, whose body was cold and stiff beneath his hands. 

_Hermione Granger_. 

Cait shoved him aside. She pressed two fingers to Hermione’s neck, then bent down, an ear to her mouth. 

“No pulse, not breathing.” 

She looked across Hermione’s body to Nadia. A current of understanding passed between the two girls, and Nadia lunged forward, interlaced her hands, and began compressing Hermione’s sternum. 

“Take over for her after two minutes,” Cait said. “I’m going to find McGonagall and Pomfrey.” 

Draco nodded dumbly and watched Cait sprint toward the castle. 

“Draco?” Narcissa put a shaky hand on his shoulder. “Is this… Is she…” 

Nadia backed away as water seeped from Hermione’s mouth. Draco repositioned her head, allowing it to drip onto the grass. She coughed once, feebly, then began to breathe, shallow inhales that barely moved her chest. 

“We need to get her to the Hospital Wing,” Nadia said, wiping her forehead. 

Draco looped his arms under Hermione’s knees and shoulders. 

“Carefully,” Narcissa said, supporting Hermione’s lolling head. She placed it against Draco’s shoulder, then draped the blanket across her body. 

The war’s end had brought the start of reconciliation: the process of prosecutions, burials, memorials, and reparations that helped bring justice to perpetrators and closure to those harmed. 

Hermione’s disappearance had been a particularly raw wound. Only one Death Eater, a halfwit named Thane Shaw, had any information. He and a man named Cleve had pursued her through Hogwarts, but lost her in a dead-ended stairwell. He couldn’t explain how. 

The school had been searched, and the ghosts and elves put on patrol. The centaurs and other sentient beings of the Forbidden Forest were given her picture. A Trace had been put on her wand. Fliers hung in every shop window. Muggle law enforcement knew her as a missing woman and were paid to keep her face in their papers. A search team was sent to Australia to surveil her Obliviated parents. 

Nothing. Hermione had disappeared from the face of the planet the night Potter had died. And while the wizarding world did its best to stop it, the planet had kept spinning without her. 

Draco tightened his grip, held her closer. Eleven years spent as a mouse, scraping a life in the bowels of Hogwarts, her sole connection to humanity the whispered gratitude of students and, for the past month, a life with him. 

He ached for her. 

He loved her. 

He hardly knew her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Draco paced the Hospital Wing hallway. The shock of Hermione’s transformation had receded enough for more practical questions to come to the fore. Questions he kept turning over and over, like a Muggle engine failing to start. He started the litany again. Maybe the seventh repetition would bring understanding. 

Hermione’s existence as the Potions Mouse, his beloved Sylvie, was clear evidence that she had retained some measure of her personality and intelligence. And if she remembered the minutiae of brew reactions, then she must have remembered Draco, too. She had bitten him upon their first meeting; that felt like proof enough. And if this was the case, then why had she stayed with him? 

Why had she _stayed_? 

At first, she had needed healing. She’d been burned and concussed, and an injured mouse was easy prey for Hogwarts’ many pet cats. But after she’d healed? She had navigated the castle and its dangers for over a decade. She was a survivor. 

Perhaps survival held the answer. Draco provided her with safety, a consistent supply of food and water, and, he thought with heated cheeks, a warm place to sleep. In other words, he was _convenient_. But Luna had offered these things, too. Hermione had had the choice to go with her, to leave Hogwarts and live with someone who had a much better chance at reversing whatever curse she’d been under. Yet she’d chosen to stay with him. 

Maybe she enjoyed the life she’d made. For years, Hermione had been assisting his students as the Potions Mouse. She probably sat in on other classes, too. And though the incident in his N.E.W.T. class couldn’t be called fortuitous, it did legitimize her. She no longer had to dart from dark corners to help his students. She ran among the benches with impunity, climbing up herself or accepting the students’ open palms. Maybe this work had given her a sense of purpose. Maybe it had made her happy. 

And if this had been the end of it, Draco could have waited for news. If Hermione had stayed with him as a matter of requirement, convenience, happiness, or some mixture of the three. If she had slept in his workroom or on a bookshelf or on his couch. If he’d seen her only in class and during meals. If she had taken her berries and her greens and her seeds and left him alone. 

If they hadn’t spent almost every waking minute together over the past month, then maybe Draco would have been content with the story he’d told himself. But they _had_. She’d sat on his shoulder during lessons. She’d nestled in the crook of his neck as he read each night before bed. She’d spent Quidditch games in his pocket, munching on the seeds he’d stashed there as a snack. They’d played silly games. She’d run obstacle courses and mazes, dodged his clumsy attempts to catch her in a bastardized game of tag, and hid so effectively during hide-and-seek that he had started to worry, and they’d avoided the game ever since. Wherever he went, she accompanied him by choice. He offered his hand, and she took it. 

Draco rubbed his chest and looked at the Hospital Wing entrance. That meant something. It had to. 

As if on cue, Madame Pomfrey opened the door. She saw Draco and sighed. 

“Will you be here all night, Professor Malfoy?” 

Was it night already? The windowless corridor obscured all sense of time, though it didn’t matter. He’d wait any amount of time to see her. 

“How is she?” 

“Injured. Traumatized. Minvera has been sitting with her. She’s…” The Healer shook her head, unable to find the words. 

“When can I see her?” 

“You can’t.” 

Draco stiffened. 

“Pardon me?” 

“She needs time to adjust. We need to handle her reintegration slowly.” 

“I’m the one who found her.” 

“Professor—” 

“She’s been living with me for a _month_.” 

“As a _mouse_!” Pomfrey said in an exasperated hiss. “Just because you fed her berries and let her into your classroom doesn’t give you any more right to see her than her family, her friends—” 

“I am her friend!” 

Pregnant silence hung between them. Draco colored at Pomfrey’s calculating look, the injuries and insults of his and Hermione’s shared childhood as fresh in her mind as if they’d happened a week ago, not a decade. 

“Get some rest, Professor.” Pomfrey’s tone held no room for negotiation. “If Ms. Granger wishes to see you, I will let you know. Until then, I suggest you focus on end of term and mind your own business.” 

Pomfrey had never liked him: too much a bully when he was a child, too willing to shift sides as a teenager, and, apparently, too entitled as an adult. Draco set his chin. There was no use in trying to change that now. 

“Let me know the minute she asks for me,” Draco said, inclining his head. “I’ll see you soon.” 

He felt Pomfrey’s stare as he walked away and knew that she would never let him into Hermione’s ward. Fortunately, there were other means of gaining access. One just had to be clever enough to figure them out. 

~*~*~

For two days, the castle seethed with rumor. Several students had witnessed Nadia, Draco, and Narcissa’s panicked rush to the Hospital Wing. A few had even recognized Draco’s armful as a human body. But no one besides their group of six—him, Cait, Nadia, Narcissa, Pomfrey, and McGonagall—knew the truth. Some speculated that a mermaid had been injured by the lake’s giant squid. Others were sure that Draco had murdered a student. 

But on Wednesday, the entire Weasley clan stormed the castle, their eyes streaming preemptive tears. All it took was one. One student to overhear the whisper of Hermione’s name and pass it to another, to two more, to their parents, to the press. 

The two days of relative peace were enough for Headmistress Sprout to draft a vague statement, promptly released to the _Daily Prophet_, addressing Hermione’s whereabouts for the past eleven years (unknown), her current status (recovering), and future prospects (undecided). 

Once she was deemed stable, Pomfrey moved Hermione and the Weasleys to an unused corridor. The Hospital Wing’s reopening coincided with a drastic reduction in student injuries, as minor scrapes and burns were no longer the likeliest method of seeing the famous witch. 

The corridor’s location was a closely-guarded secret. Sprout, anticipating the castle-wide curiosity, had warded several decoy corridors with the same set of security jinxes. Her paranoia was warranted, but it made Draco’s job of breaking in much more difficult. Disabling one corridor at a time would take too long for a single evening and would likely prompt Hermione to be relocated, if not removed from Hogwarts altogether. 

If Draco were going to see her, he needed to know which corridor she was in and how to remove the spells without triggering them. Fortunately, he knew a group of motivated perfectionists that excelled in sourcing just this kind of critical information. 

His N.E.W.T. students regarded him with an attention normally reserved for practical exams. 

“Ravenclaw?” 

Cyril stood, ever formal. 

“We’ve searched the castle’s west side and all the towers except Gryffindor’s, using the Great Hall as our boundary point. We thought the fourth floor corridor likely, but Prefect patrols document no activity into or out of the cordoned zone.” 

“Gryffindor?” 

“Nothing, sir,” Cait replied, seated. “Our tower’s clear, and there’s not much to see on the castle’s south side.” 

“Nadia?” 

“They’re not in the dungeons or on the East side of the castle. We tried to get information from the ghosts, but the Baron has scared Peeves into silence. We have nothing.” 

“Hufflepuff?” 

“We were able to spot two likely locations,” Greg said. “Third floor corridor on the castle’s north end, just a level up from the Hospital Wing. But we think...” He looked at his housemates for support; several nodded. “We think it’s the first floor northeast corridor. It’s accessible from both the Hospital Wing and the Kitchens. The northeast corridor is also dead-ended, with a single point of entry. Strategically, it’s easier to control and monitor access.” 

“Well done.” 

“You should know, sir,” Greg continued, “that we performed a diagnostic of the area. There are revealors and alarms. We even caught traces of a Confundus in the Ward Weave.” 

“That presents a problem.” Draco was more than proficient at Potions, but had little experience with Curse-Breaking or Ward Weaving. 

“Not if you can find the Mother Thread,” offered Cyril. “Where the Weave is tied together,” he explained to blank looks around the classroom. “Did no one else read Kandarie Geloma’s most recent publication on modern warding?” 

“Why don’t you enlighten us?” Draco said, gesturing to the blackboard. 

The Ravenclaw was in his element for the next hour, giving the class a crash course in ward theory and practical application. Draco led the applause when he was through. 

“Thank you all for your help,” he said, leaning back on his desk. “Fifteen points to Ravenclaw, ten to Hufflepuff, five to Gryffindor and Slytherin.” 

“You’ll let us know how she’s doing, sir?” asked Cait. “If you see her?” 

“_When_ I see her,” Draco corrected with more confidence than he felt. The illustration Cyril had left on the board was complicated, and Draco would risk real injury in trying to break through it. “When I see her,” he continued, “I’ll let her know that her N.E.W.T. class wishes her well.” 

~*~*~

Draco traveled under a Disillusionment Charm, though the castle’s midnight hallways were empty. He tried not to think as he drew his wand at the northeast corridor’s entrance, remembering Cyril’s advice. Wards were less about seeing and more about feeling, attuning oneself with one’s magic to undo that of another. It took several passes before Draco felt his magic catch, the slight resistance that indicated the Mother Thread. 

He started with a gentle pressure, a steady pull that he stopped the moment the Weave pulled back. Another pass with his wand, another junction identified. He pulled again, drawing slightly further this time. The process continued until the resistance felt no stronger than untied shoelaces. He pulled a few hairs from his head and sent them floating through the arched entrance. No alarm, no explosion. Not even a sizzle of magic. Despite this, Draco held his breath as he eased across the faulty net. 

Light shone through the seams of a closed door about halfway down the hall. Draco’s heart pounded as he backed against the wall to listen. 

“The Ministry doesn’t think their memories can be restored,” Molly Weasley said. “Poor dear has no idea. No parents, Ron married off… You know they fancied each other.” 

“The girl’s been a mouse for a decade,” said Arthur Weasley, reasonably. “I doubt she’s thinking about losing Ron.” 

“Of course you’re right, but so much has changed. Where will she go?” 

“Bill and Fleur have offered their place, as have Ron and Lavender.” Molly scoffed at the idea. “Ginny maybe, though she travels quite a bit now. Or she could stay with us, of course.” 

“That would be best,” Molly agreed, Arthur having stumbled upon the correct answer. “She’ll come to The Burrow, and we’ll—” 

Draco continued down the hallway, stopping again when he reached the very last door, which glowed with faint candlelight. He knocked softly and heard the rustle of fabric from within. 

“Yes?” 

The door opened, and Draco stepped back. 

“Hello?” 

Hermione’s eyes searched the dark, looking right past him. Draco remembered that he was still Disillusioned. 

“Don’t scream,” he said. “It’s me.” 

She gasped as he ended the charm, taking an automatic step back. A step that hurt more than he thought it would. 

“Malfoy?” 

“Hi.” 

It was an inadequate greeting, but he was taken aback by the sight of her. Standing, breathing, the firelight shining off familiar chestnut curls. Her body was too thin for her frame, her muscles too weak, face too drawn. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She shifted, the silence extending too long. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Your N.E.W.T. students say hello.” 

“My students?” Her furrowed brow eased as her eyes widened, like she’d caught a flash of clarity. Then, she winced and pressed the heel of her hand to her temple. 

“Come in,” she said. Her recovery room was spare: a single bed, a table with four chairs, a fire burning low in the hearth. She uncorked a poppy-red vial of Somniferous, an opium-based pain reliever and sleep aid, and tossed it back with a grimace. 

“You need to be careful with that.” He lifted the discarded bottle. The dose was twice the normal strength. 

“It’s the only way I can sleep.” 

They sat across from one another at the table. Hermione conjured herself a glass of water, her hand shaking violently as she brought it to her mouth. Draco placed a steadying hand over hers. Her skin was warm and soft. Human. 

“The tremors are a side effect. McGonagall said they’ll stop once my muscles acclimate. It’s worse when I do magic, but…” Her eyes shone as she looked at her wand. “I missed it. She’s not sure about the headaches. They flare up whenever I think about what happened.” 

“You remember it?” 

“I don’t…” She winced again. “I don’t know. I remember running through the castle, away from two Death Eaters. I was cornered, and I knew I couldn’t kill them. I wanted to disappear. To hide. Hogwarts did the best it could for me, I suppose.” 

He wasn’t fooled by her brittle nonchalance. 

“It wasn’t fair, what happened to you.” 

“I’m not sure how much the fairness of it matters.” She shrugged a shoulder. “It happened, it’s over.” 

He doubted that. 

“You were there,” she said. “You saw the curse break.” 

A pit formed in his stomach. He deflected. 

“You don’t remember it?” 

“I remember the feeling of it,” she said, voice choked. “It’s like that with everything. I can draw a map of every tunnel in this castle, but I couldn’t tell you where anything is. I can tell you what smells dangerous, but not why. McGonagall says it has to do with how the mouse brain processes memory. Sense to working to short- and long-term, but I don’t know. I don’t… I can’t understand…” 

Hermione dashed tears from her eyes; Draco clenched his fist to keep from reaching out to her. 

She didn’t remember him. It explained why she hadn’t asked for him and why Pomfrey had sent him away. It explained her reaction at the door, the flash of uncertainty, the moment of fear. She didn’t know the person he’d become. The man who had saved a helpless mouse and tried to fix her, who had given her a home when he’d failed. 

He stood abruptly. 

“I should go.” 

“What?” 

“I shouldn’t be here. You need to rest, and I… You don’t know…” 

She put a staying hand on his arm. 

“McGonagall caught me up on what she could. You must have done something right for Sprout to have hired you.” 

Draco gave her a wry look. He was on the edge of making another excuse when her hand drifted to his. 

“Please stay. At least until the potion starts to hit. I have questions, and McGonagall said you might have the answers.” 

Her eyes were dark and familiar in the low light. Against his better judgment, he sat. 

“What do you want to know?” 

“How did you find me?” 

He gave her the brief history of their life together, intentionally skimming the events by the Great Lake. An encouraging light entered her eyes, a tenacity he’d seen before. 

“I must have known who I was,” she said, hands pressed flat against the table. “I must have known who _you_ were.” 

“It’s possible.” He couldn’t let himself hope. 

“No, it’s _fact_. I remember everything prior to my transformation. I _still_ remember it, and I obviously used it while I was transformed. I was _me_ when I was a mouse. And if I was myself, then my memories from those years must be…” 

Hermione grimaced and set her head into her hands, enthusiasm quelled by the pain of repressed memory. 

“You need time,” Draco said. 

“You’re not a Healer.” A silent minute passed. “Sorry.” 

“There’s no need.” 

“It feels like there’s a gaping hole in my head. I was a teenager, and now I’m an adult with no idea of how I got here.” 

“That makes two of us.” 

She breathed a laugh and lifted her head, giving him a frank look. 

“You never answered my question, you know. Maybe you thought I wouldn’t notice.” 

“Hermione…” 

“I’d like to know.” 

“We went for a picnic,” he said with a resigned sigh. “My mother saw you, panicked, and sent you out into the lake to drown. The water… It was like a geyser.” He paused, trying to forget the chest-deep roar of the explosion, the sight of her pale body, the flat slap as she struck the water’s surface. He pinched the bridge of his nose, but it did nothing to relieve the pressure in his head. 

“I summoned you and dragged you to shore. You weren’t breathing, and Cait couldn’t find a pulse.” 

“I died?” 

Nausea stirred in Draco’s belly. 

“I think that’s what broke the curse.” 

Hermione nodded, as if his unsubstantiated theory made perfect sense. 

“What then?” 

“Nadia forced the water from your lungs and got you breathing again. My mother covered you, and I carried you to the Hospital Wing. I think you know the rest.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You don’t—” 

“I died. You helped bring me back. I owe you my life.” 

He felt like he owed her so much more. 

“So, what now?” he asked, eager to change the subject. 

“People keep asking that, and I’m not sure what to say. I’ve been out of this world for so long that I don’t know where to start.” 

“Do you want a job?” 

Her eyes snapped to his. He was only half joking, but continued with a quiet laugh to set her at ease. 

“Potions. You’re a natural, and you already passed my interview.” 

“I’m sure you’re very particular about who you accept.” 

His heart skipped a beat. Maybe her lost memories were closer than she thought. 

“I am.” 

She smiled sadly and shook her head. She was right to refuse; he knew she would. But the reality of losing her hurt in a way he couldn’t fully commit to. He let it slide over him, saving the pain for when he was alone. 

“You should travel,” he said. “See the world. Experience the life you should have had.” 

“That sounds nice.” She wiped her eyes, and Draco looked down at his hands. If he was going to lose her, then it needed to be now. A clean break made for faster healing. 

“I’m glad you’re you again.” He stood and walked to the door. She shuffled behind him, limbs growing heavy. 

“So am I. Thank you, for everything.” 

“I didn’t know,” he said, turning to face her at the threshold. “I didn’t know it was you.” 

“No one did.” 

“I should have.” 

“How?” Her words ran together, clumsy and blunt from the Somniferous. “We weren’t friends. You didn’t know me. You never cared enough to try.” 

The truth hit him square, the shame of his past not forgotten, but buried. Nevertheless, he found the will to meet her eyes. So familiar now. So loved. 

“I know,” he said. “I’ve changed.” 

“I know,” she replied. “I’ve seen it.” 

Slowly, as if she wasn’t sure of the gesture, she reached out to cup his cheek. 

“Goodbye, Draco.” 

Just as slowly, he caught her by the wrist and pressed a kiss to her palm. Her pulse fluttered against his fingers while his own heart lurched to a stop. 

“Goodbye, Hermione.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Hermione left Hogwarts the next day. 

For a time, keeping up with her was easy. The intense public interest persuaded her to do a limited interview with the _Quibbler_, reprinted with permission and a hefty fee by the _Daily Prophet_. She gave no more information than Sprout had. Predictably, it was not enough. Nothing would have been. 

Term ended, the summer solstice passed, and the _Prophet_ continued to run stories any time she left The Burrow. Hermione made headlines just by visiting the Weasleys’ joke shop in Diagon Alley or venturing into Muggle London by way of the Leaky Cauldron. 

Public interest waned over the summer, thanks to society’s shortening attention span and a salacious scandal involving the Department of Magical Transportation and the owner of a troubled broom manufacturing company. Hermione’s forays into the world moved to the second page, then the oft-ignored human interest section. 

By the start of next term, Draco had stopped searching for her name in the papers. 

The physical distance between them had provided clarity. He had grown attached to Sylvie the mouse; he acknowledged that. But in the early days of Hermione’s transformation back into a human, there had been no separating the two. Sylvie was Hermione, Hermione was Sylvie. Affection for one was affection for both. 

He thought he’d been in love, but he knew as much about Hermione as she knew about him. The bond they’d formed over their month together, though unique, was not one that could serve as the foundation for a relationship. 

But it hadn’t left him unscathed. Whether she remembered or not, Hermione had given him a taste of unconditional love, and there was no going back to a life without it. So, he adopted a cat. A selectively affectionate shorthair named Crystal with a bite out of her ear and an inch off her tail. She didn’t do much more than stare at him for the first few months, but late in November, when his dungeon-adjacent room grew cool and his windows rimed with frost, she deigned to crawl onto the foot of his bed to sleep. 

It was a start. 

~*~*~

Draco trudged the path to Hogsmeade with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. A blizzard had dropped six inches of snow on Hogwarts and the surrounding area, inspiring a feeling of hibernation he wished he could indulge. 

Unfortunately, he had agreed to meet his mother at Madame Puddifoot’s for afternoon tea. He didn’t mind the walk; it gave him time to think. Narcissa had pulled back on her insistence that Draco find a wife, but the reprieve was temporary. A strategic adjustment due to Hermione’s reappearance and his mother’s shrewd, almost arcane knowledge of his emotional state. 

He tapped his boots on Puddifoot’s threshold. Bells tinkled above his head as he entered, ringing a tinny, Yuletide tune. Not a single table was occupied. The girl behind the counter glanced up from her _Witch Weekly_. 

“You Draco Malfoy?” 

He pulled the balaclava down from his chin. 

“Yes.” 

“Your mother Firecalled. Told me to tell you she isn’t going to make it. Came down with a cold.” 

She cracked her chewing gum and turned back to her magazine. Draco bit down on his irritation. It wasn’t like his mother to cancel last minute. 

He stood beneath the tea shop's awning and surveyed the street. Hogsmeade’s main thoroughfare had been cleared for pedestrians, and couples walked arm-in-arm, off to lunch or to finish their Christmas shopping. He had none of the latter to do, but a pint at the Hog’s Head would at least warm him for the walk back to the castle. 

“Draco?” 

His heart missed a beat. Crossing the street, heading right for him, was Hermione. Her long, curly hair sprung out from beneath a plum-colored, hand-knit hat. The cold had nipped her cheeks and the tip of her nose, a pleasant rose against her light skin. 

She was better than a pint. Warmth like strong whiskey rushed through his veins, and he smiled. He might not have loved her, but he had _liked_ her. He still did. 

“Nice to see you again,” she said, filling the void where his greeting should have been. 

“I thought you were touring with Weasley.” 

“Oh, you mean Ginny. Yes, I was, but the Harpies’ midseason break started at the end of November. They won’t begin playing again until spring.” 

“You’ll be going back out with the team?” 

“No. That’s why I’m here.” She raised a gloved hand, a piece of parchment pinched between her fingers. “I’m looking at properties.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. 

“Properties? To own?” 

“Rent for now, I think. I’m working with an agent, Aleah Relles. Have you heard of her?” 

He had: Relles was one of his mother’s longtime friends. Narcissa’s cold suddenly seemed much more suspect. 

“In passing,” he hedged. “Any luck yet?” 

“Nothing in London, that’s for sure. We looked at a few units in some smaller wizarding communities, but nothing felt right.” 

“Well, good luck,” he said with a nod. “I’ll leave you and Ms. Relles to it.” 

“Actually, I’m on my own today,” she said, following him a step. “Aleah was busy with family, but I wanted to come. She gave me the keys.” 

“What’s the rush?” 

Hermione furrowed her brow, searching for the right words. She settled on, “I need my own space.” 

“How many places has she given you?” 

“Three.” She handed the parchment over to him. “Do you know any of them?” 

“This one, the complex on Flutterby Drive. I looked there as an alternative to staying at Hogwarts when I started teaching. They’re new constructions and can come fully furnished, but they’re overpriced for the area. Good if you want something more temporary,” he amended with a glance. 

“Let’s look there first.” His brows rose at her natural use of the plural. “I mean, you probably have better things to do,” she added, the red in her cheeks deepening. “I don’t expect you to help—” 

“I don’t have any plans. My mother stood me up, so I’m free.” 

“It’s a drudge, though, looking at real estate. Don’t feel like—” 

“Hermione, do you want my company or not?” 

She straightened her shoulders and looked at him square. 

“Yes.” 

He looked down at the parchment, trying not to let the riot of excitement and confusion he felt show on his face. 

“Flutterby Drive is just outside the city proper. It looks like Relles ordered these by distance, so we should just be able to go down the list. Do you want to Apparate?” He offered his arm, intending to Side-Along. 

“No,” she answered, taking it anyway. “I’d prefer to walk, if it’s all the same to you.” 

Draco’s stomach lurched, his mouth dry as they made their way out of Hogsmeade’s business district. They walked in silence until they reached the apartment complex. After just a few minutes, Hermione shook her head. 

“This isn’t it.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because it doesn’t feel like home.” 

The next address was just two blocks down. A detached house with a small front garden and neighbors so close that they could see into the kitchen windows. 

“Might as well live in a fishbowl.” 

“No privacy,” Draco agreed. 

The space between homes grew larger as they walked, and the sun began to set, painting the sky orange and indigo. Draco felt her shiver and cast a warming charm over them both. 

“Thanks,” she said, relaxing with the heat. “How’s your year been?” 

“Good.” 

She gave him an expectant look. He grimaced. 

“Are you sure you want to hear about Potions’ class?” 

“I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t,” she said, tone sharp. “I’m not made of glass, Draco. I don’t need to be handled or managed or _protected_.” 

“I know. I just… The last time I saw you—” 

“A lot has changed since then.” 

“Right,” he said on a breath. But her arm remained wrapped around his. Whatever had started hadn’t yet stopped. “It’s been good. My N.E.W.T. class is smaller this year but no less talented. I’m trying something new for the term’s second half. A research project. I’m going to split them into groups of three and assign them a potion. Their objective will be to use their understanding of the ingredients and reaction theory to improve it.” 

“Improve? That’s a vague metric.” 

“I’d accept a reduction in brew time, ingredient cost, or side effects, or an increase in yield or efficacy. They’d lose experience brewing some of the more advanced potions, but they’d gain research experience, which I believe will be more valuable.” 

“Will you still lecture?” 

“I’ll prepare a few, but I’m hoping their questions will drive classroom discussion. They can learn and help each other in the process. You have an idea,” he prompted. 

“What if their potions can’t be improved?” 

“You think there exists a perfect brew?” 

“I think that experts have been trying to improve the Wolfsbane potion since its invention and haven’t yet succeeded. I don’t know if your N.E.W.T. students have the knowledge.” 

“Not individually,” he admitted, “but you’d be surprised what they can do when they work together.” 

“Would I?” 

“They got me through your Ward Weave,” he confessed with a grin. 

“I always wondered how you found me.” 

“_I_ didn’t, and I think that’s why it worked. Pomfrey suspected I’d try.” 

She laughed again and shook her head, unsurprised. 

“What have you been up to over the past year?” Draco asked. 

“It sounds like you already know.” 

He half-shrugged. 

“The _Prophet_’s coverage was hard to miss.” 

“I’d hoped that _Quibbler_ interview would put an end to it,” she said with a sigh. “Apparently not.” 

“Thank Merlin for adulterous politicians and back-alley deals.” 

Another eye-roll. 

“I stayed with the Weasleys for a couple of months. When that was too much, I moved in with Bill and Fleur. I didn’t stay with them for long, either. Fleur’s just as bad as Molly, though you could never say that to her face. Ginny is on the Holyhead Harpies’ travel squad and offered to bring me along. It got me out of England. I explored the continent while she practiced.” 

“It sounds like exactly what you wanted.” 

“It was.” 

“But you’re not going back?” 

She shook her head. 

“I want something different now.” 

“And what’s that?” 

“I want to understand what happened to me. I’ve been talking to McGonagall all year, and Luna put me in touch with her Curse-Breaker friend, Camilla. We’ve been workshopping theories, but I can’t test them while I’m on the road. Sprout offered me the opportunity for an independent study at Hogwarts.” She looked up at him. “I took it.” 

Draco’s heart leapt. She was coming back. 

“That’s great,” he said, shifting his eyes back to the snowy path. He wondered if she saw the hope she had kindled. A stupid hope, entirely misplaced, but present nonetheless. 

The final house was set back from the road. The front garden was overgrown, its disrepair obvious even when snow-covered. The dwelling itself was more like a cottage, with cracked stone walls and small windows. The chimney bent at an odd angle and, in Draco’s novice estimation, looked unusable. He gave her a skeptical look. 

“We’ve come this far,” she said, looking disheartened. “Might as well go in.” 

Draco forced the jammed door, and they were hit with the smell of cold must. The dim interior was dusty, littered with random pieces of threadbare furniture that were either tipped over or collapsed. 

“Abandoned?” 

“Must be,” Hermione said. She sent a light to the ceiling. The stark illumination revealed peeling wallpaper and a water-stained ceiling. 

“No tremors,” he said, nodding at her hands. 

“They’re rare now. The more advanced spells can set them off, but never for more than a few minutes.” 

They wandered further into the house. Like in ancient times, the fireplace was in the kitchen, and Draco was surprised to see blue embers smouldering within it. 

“Eternal flames,” he remarked. “Who do you think lived here?” 

“I don’t know, but they must have been powerful.” 

The butcher block counters were scarred with time and the cabinets rusted off their hinges. The back window looked out onto a cracked patio and the thin beginnings of a forest. The bare trees were stark against the snow, and Draco thought he could see a deer path running along a frozen creek several yards in. 

“I could get lost in there,” Hermione said, sounding wistful. “I’m going upstairs.” 

“Be careful.” 

Draco remained in the kitchen, conjuring a kettle and setting it on the hinge over the hearth. The moment the kettle swung over the fireplace, the flames rose, the perfect height and strength for a fast boil. He heard Hermione’s stop-and-go footsteps as she explored the first floor. The tea was ready by the time she tromped back down, heavy in her winter boots. 

He palmed his mug and leaned against the counter. Hermione swung the kettle back over the hearth, her expression enchanted as the flames rose. 

“You like it, don’t you?” 

“It feels right,” she answered. “There are a million reasons not to buy it: the expense, the work, the remote location. But it’s bones are strong. I can see the possibilities. What do you think?” 

“Does it matter?” 

She bobbed her head. 

“It may.” 

“Why?” 

She looked into her mug, as if to hide behind the steam. 

“Because you feel right, too. I know it’s absurd because the only time I’ve spent with you was when I was a different species, and I hardly remember any of it, but it’s just… For the past year, I’ve felt this ache in my chest. I couldn’t figure it out for the longest time, and then Ginny asked about you. We hadn’t really talked about what happened to me, and I could hardly get the words out before I _broke_. And it was grief and happiness and this, this _flood_ of emotion, and it didn’t make sense until Ginny named it.” 

She set her mug on the counter. Draco did too, heart racing. 

“What are you saying?” 

“I want to know if Ginny is right. I want to _remember_.” 

Hermione crossed the room and took his hand. She held it palm up, tracing her fingers along the depression at its center. 

“I used to sit here,” she whispered. “I remember how it felt when you held me. How you would carry me across the room, or just give me a warm place to sleep.” She brought her other hand to his neck. “I remember the feel of your pulse and the sound of your heartbeat. How you smelled…” She lifted his hand to cup her cheek and closed her eyes with soft pleasure. “You would touch my face when you were stressed or tired, when you needed me.” She opened her eyes, which shone in the gentle light of sunset. “What were we, Draco? What _are_ we?” 

He brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping her tears away as her eyes fluttered closed once more. 

“I don’t know.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead as she exhaled a sigh. “But I’d like to find out.” 

****

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> "The Forest Bride" can be found here: https://fairytalez.com/the-forest-bride-the-story-of-a-little-mouse-who-was-a-princess/


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